


something tragic about you

by CosmicDusty



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Member Death, Maybe - Freeform, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22473598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicDusty/pseuds/CosmicDusty
Summary: You are a half-elf who had your family taken from you as a child and has since lived with an abusive tavern owner.  Geralt swoops in and says Hm and Fuck a lot.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 49
Kudos: 356





	1. Chapter 1

Your ears come out to a slight point, but are not entirely without a human roundness. On one, at the edge, is a scar, thick and paler than the rest of your skin. You resent the human in you; years ago, you tried to cut it away into a full point, rid yourself of that which reminded you of your humanity, make yourself into a true elf. But the pain was too great and you could not finish it.

You are not angry with your father for being human, but you’re not exactly _not_ angry with him either. Humans took both your father and your mother from you when you were too young to remember much of them, so that now you aren’t able to feel anything in particular if you try and call them to your mind. And you are riotously angry for _that_ , that you were never able to know them, that humans stole that privilege from you by burning your village to the ground after slaughtering its people as you watched in mute-horror hidden at the edge of the woods. All you retain of that night is the scent of coppery blood and screams and flickering fire. And laughter.

You stayed in the charred wreckage for days, sleeping in the ashes of what had been your home, until a trader and his wife rode in expecting a bustling market day but instead found you, tiny and starving. They brought you to the nearest village and left you there on the street, not wanting to cart along a toddler half-elf. All you had left of your family and childhood was your mother’s embroidered shawl, which you were not supposed to wear outside of the house but took anyway; it was cold and you had wanted to gather winterberries and the shawl was warm and beautiful. You are glad you took it.

You have worked in the tavern of the town ever since. You no longer know how many years it has been. Two decades? Three? 

The original owner of the place was not exactly kind to you, but he very rarely ever hit you. You’re sad, in a way, that he died, because his son Lyden is not as tolerant of your kind. He strikes you over the smallest of things: a few drops of spilled ale, a customer complaining of your elven blood, a customer desiring you for that very same reason. But you’re thankful for that last one, that he refuses to make you join the pretty girls upstairs. You have instead earned your position as a barmaid, and if you have to avoid the pawing of men wanting to fulfill a fantasy, you will. Anything to not be a girl faking moans into the night, being pinned night after sleepless night into a hard mattress. Not that you catch much sleep, either. 

You do not like your empty, lonely room at the end of the upstairs hall. Rather than sleep there you slip out into the woods, and creep back in before dawn. The other girls know this, and most are kind and do not tell on you, but sometimes you are unlucky enough to sleep in and come through the back door when the owner has already risen from his bed and crossed the street from his home to the tavern to rouse the girls and collect payment from the men who stayed the night.  
On those unlucky occasions when you are caught you are beaten worse than usual. If ever you catch a glimpse of your back in the mirror after a bath, you try not to think of the sound of his belt meeting your skin. Your keeper does not like that you have some secret place to go in the night.

Even if it is just the stars and the moon that you are looking up at from your bed of moss, wrapped in your mother’s shawl.

Out here you don’t feel as though you’ll suffocate, the open air gifting you with wind, cicada song, animals rustling. Sometimes, if you lay still enough, deer will walk near you, regarding you with soft eyes.

Tonight though, you hear none of these things that you love. It is unnaturally quiet and still. When a twig cracks nearby your body is already coiled and ready to jump up. You scan the trees, not able to see much from the light of the sliver of moon, until it gives you the flash of eyes in the dark, and then you can see the man walking towards you, fast enough to make you nervous.

“Get down,” he rumbles, but in the next moment another stick snaps behind you and you whirl around in time to see too-long teeth and a clawed hand swiping at you. You stagger back but it’s too late, those claws tear through your arm and there is only pain, white hot and searing. You think you would rather the dull ache of bruises. You think you would rather death. You think nothing and hear the unnerving sound of something sharp sinking into something living, the thump of a body hitting the forest floor. You hope that the beast will kill you quickly and be done with it all, but you feel nothing but the persisting agony of your arm and then a soft touch on your shoulder.

A voice full of gravel tells you that you will be alright.

You wake under the cold blue sky, blink hazily at a sun that is already halfway to setting. You’re laying on something soft -- a fur blanket? -- with a heavy cloak thrown over you. Your arm is hot, a stabbing, throbbing pain. You wonder idly at what happened to it, and then remember throwing your forearm up to block that creature from anything vital. 

And then you process that it’s noon. You cannot even imagine the beating that you will get. You bolt up, crying out at the searing pain, but struggle to your feet anyways, letting the cloak fall off of you. But then a man is in front of you, golden-honey cat eyes wide.

You sway on your feet, dizziness overcoming you. “I have to get back,” you say, “Or I think he might kill me.”

“Fuck,” he says, before you tip over. He catches you easily, but one hand presses into your bandaged skin and you scream.

“Fuck,” he says again.

When you next open your eyes it’s sunset and the man is sitting right beside you, his cloak once again thrown over you. 

When he sees you stir he places a hand on your shoulder, a gentle pressure, and says, “Easy, little elf. You lost a lot of blood.”

You don’t have _time_ to worry about that. You sit up despite the hand meant to keep you down and ask, “How long have I been asleep?”

“Somewhere you need to be?”

“How long.”

He grunts. “Almost two days.”

Two…? Shit. _Fuck_.

You try to get to your feet again, but he just grabs the hand of your good arm and tugs you back down to sit, which is when you notice you’re no longer wearing your dress. Instead you are practically swimming in a shirt that smells of pine and horse, and your shawl is wrapped around your shoulders.

You look down at the shirt, then at him.

Unfazed, he says, “Your dress was soaked in blood. It’s nearly winter; you would have frozen.” 

You can’t say you wish he’d left you in a blood-soaked dress, so you let it go. 

Next, he asks, “Who do you think is going to kill you if you don’t get back?”

You don’t want to tell him. You don’t _know_ this man. You grip the shawl tighter around you and look at the ground.

“Is it the same man that bruised you up and left scars on your back?”

Now you look at him. _No one_ has seen them before. Lyden never hits you where it will not be covered by your clothes. He likes to kick you once he has you on the ground, so your back is nearly always painted black and blue, not to mention bloody when he lashes you; you often have to sleep on your stomach.

And now, with this new wound that has already seeped through the bandages…

“How bad is it?” you ask. “How deep?”

He shakes his head.

Fine. You pull at the knot tying it together and unravel the stained cloth before he can stop you. For a moment you worry you’re going to faint again, but the feeling passes. It is four gashes into the meat of your forearm. The worst two are stitched fairly neatly, but the edges still tug apart slightly, just enough that you can see more of your own inner anatomy than you would care to. You are careful to keep your arm palm-up so you don’t brush anything along the ragged cuts. 

“Please cover it again,” you say. “I shouldn’t have looked.”

He sighs and reaches into a bag laying next to him, procuring a fresh cloth. As he re-binds you, you can’t help but think that like this you won’t be able to fulfill your duties as a barmaid. The only work you will be able to do, that requires no lifting, is on your back, under the weight of a man.

You do _not_ like the feeling of fear, of powerlessness, but now it seems to ooze from your heart. Your eyes are still on his face but your vision unfocuses, blurs. You can’t remember the last time you allowed yourself to cry, to give in to hopelessness.

“What hurt you? Left you so beaten?” The heaviness in his voice requires an answer.

You choke out a laugh that is more like a sob, tell him, “Not _what_. A man. A man who will now have no use for me other than to fulfill the perversions of his customers.”

This man, who saved you and has cared for you even though he knows you are elven, shakes his head and growls, “Then that is no man. He’s worse than the beast that tried to kill you. He chooses to hurt.”

You nod and wipe at your wet face, more angry than scared now and annoyed at yourself for crying in front of a stranger.

“If you truly need to return to him I won’t stop you,” he says, but you don’t make a move to leave. 

The dying sun, in a last burst of light, glints on the pendant that hangs from his neck, and something in your memory clicks. The wolf pendant, silvery hair, gilded eyes...

“You’re the Witcher, aren’t you?”

He hmms, and nods.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who read the first part and reblogged or liked! I’m working on this in between college assignments so I’ll probably have the next part up in a few days :) I hope you enjoy!

You heard a song about a Witcher not too long ago. Someone passing through had some drink and sang it in the tavern; for weeks it was all anyone would hum or sing under their breaths. You can’t help but think that this must be the same Witcher: one that helps people in need when monsters are afoot. Maybe he would do the same for a half-elf. But then again, maybe not. Maybe the song is an exaggeration, as so many are. You gather your shawl tighter around you against the chill of dusk and survey where you are. It’s not far from where you were attacked. You suppose he must have carried you far enough that you could not see the carcass, or the earth darkened by your blood. You know how to get back from here.

You return to looking at the Witcher, who is still looking at you.

“Am I well enough to walk back to town?”

“It would be better if you didn’t, but you’d make it without passing out, at least.”

That is good enough. You stand, albeit unsteadily, and it seems the Witcher might rise to help you but doesn’t. Looking down at him seated on the ground you say, “Thank you. For keeping me alive. You didn’t have to, and not many would… so… thank you.”

He nods, and you walk away through the trees until you no longer feel his gaze, then pause and take in a steadying breath. You do not want to return, you are on the verge of panicking, but where else would you go? You didn’t want the Witcher to know this, did not want him to feel any further obligation to you. You have always only had yourself, and it will still be enough, even though you have had a taste of being helped. It has to still be enough.

You enter through the front door, hoping that the presence of customers will deter Lyden from killing you, and there are _many_ customers to bear witness, but when you see the expression of the girl who’s taken your place as barmaid you are not so hopeful anymore. 

And when you see _his_ face, you think the floor will not only be sticky from beer. You see red.

He crosses the room in four long strides and before you can say anything in your defense he strikes your face, sending you sprawling with the force of it. You drop your shawl and you know the moment he realizes that you are wearing nothing but a man’s shirt.

“You thought you could run away, did you? That a man would take the presence of you for more than a night, _she-elf_? Look at yourself,” he spits out, circling you, the room holding back with baited breath. You recognize most of the faces watching you, silently beg for one of them to stop him, but most look rather pleased with what is happening to you. 

“You have gained nothing. You _are_ nothing. You have been lucky to have me employ you. Who else on the continent would?” He rears back a foot and without thinking you block your face with your arms. You howl when his boot connects with your wound, and upon seeing the bandage he grabs your wrist, tearing the cloth away, fresh blood weeping down your arm from the torn stitches, the skin once again pulling apart.

“And you come back as damaged goods! I ought to put you out on the street where my father found you. I ought to put you out of your misery. But you will make a good enough _whore_.”

There are whistles and boos, the stomping of feet, Lyden circling you slowly. You hang your head. This is the only place you have ever known. What would you do on your own? What place on this great continent would allow a half-elf to live among the regular people? You see yourself sitting in the dirt, starving, being kicked in the streets by passersby. 

A woman shouts down the stairs interrupting your downward spiral, making herself heard over the ruckus, making the rough hands tugging at your shirt and pulling through your hair pause. She calls, “Do you not have enough whores, Lyden? Do we not drag enough coin out of men’s _sacks_ for you?”

It is the girl who rooms next to you, and she looks right in your eyes, says only to you, “Would you rather be bedded or be homeless?”

You know which you would choose. You have been able to imagine the latter, at least. The former you have not allowed yourself to dwell on.

Lyden raises his arms wide, laughs, “It doesn’t matter what the thing wants. I say she will be a whore, and so it shall be.”

But you do not accept that. If towns are treacherous for elves then you will learn to live in the woods, learn to scavenge and hunt and steal, if need be. You drag yourself to your feet and a hush comes over the room.

“I will be no one’s whore,” you say through gritted teeth, and without thinking through the next moment you snatch a dinner knife from the nearest table and plunge it into Lyden’s throat.

The room erupts. You pull the knife out and blood spurts and someone screams, high and shrill. He gurgles as he falls to his knees.

There are hands on your arms, arms around your waist, dragging you away from Lyden where he kneels, one hand uselessly covering the wound, his eyes steady on yours, until there’s the front door banging open, a flash of steel, the Witcher tipping Lyden forward with the point of his sword.

Everyone stills again, the hands on you tightening to the point that you wince.

“Get your hands off her.”

And just like that you are released. 

“Hello, Witcher,” you say. What a ridiculous thing to do, to greet him right now. You are shaking. He steps towards you and takes your wrist, prying the bloody knife away and dropping it with a clatter. You flinch.

“Go pack your things,” he says, “I will wait here.” You go numbly, people parting for you. When you are up the stairs and at your door you turn around, to the woman who defended you, tell her that you don’t have any bag to put your clothes in. You wonder why you told her that; she is not a friend. But she nods and goes into her room and brings you her own bag. It takes but a minute to pull on a pair of trousers, even less to gather everything you own.

When you go back downstairs the Witcher is drinking down a tankard of ale. Everyone has moved as far from the table he stands at as possible in the crowded room. You have never heard the tavern so silent at this time of night. He puts down the emptied cup and follows you to the door, picking up your shawl from where you dropped it. 

He wraps it around you once you are outside, where it has begun to snow. You tip your face up to the sky and drink in the moonglow. The last time you looked at its light marked the end of life as you have known it. Even with your own blood still dripping down your arm, with Lyden’s drying on your hands, you can’t help but smile.

With a deep breath you come back into your body and fasten your own heavy winter cloak over your shoulders, drawing the hood up. The Witcher has watched this, waiting patiently for you.

“I thought you said you would not stop me from returning,” you say, thinking aloud. He steps toward you in the steadily falling snow, flakes catching in his eyelashes. He holds out a hand and you give him your arm to re-bind.

“I said I wouldn’t stop you if it was what you needed to do. But it wasn’t. I was coming to get you when I heard what he was… threatening you with. I’m glad you killed him yourself. You did well.” He takes a step back, then turns and starts walking. You pull the strap of the bag up onto your shoulder.

“I left Roach a village over,” he informs you –though you have no idea who Roach is– and adds, “It’s a full day’s walk. Don’t expect much, it’s a smaller town than this.”

You want to tell him your hopes are not too high, but that would be a lie. He may not realize it, but he is giving you the world. 

So instead you say, “Thank you, Witcher.”

After a moment he glances over his shoulder and gently corrects you. “Geralt. My name is Geralt.”

You return the favor with your name. He hmms.

You walk through much of the night, until finally you have to tell Geralt that you need to sleep once you start dozing on your feet. He is leading you through the woods, and had been quite far ahead –though he’d pause every so often to make sure you could still see him– and now he waits for you to catch up. His lips twitch up the slightest bit when he sees your eyelids drooping.

“Is this a good enough spot for the night, little elf?”

You glance around at the ground, say, “I’ve spent the night on worse patches of land,” and let your bag drop. You follow in its wake, melting down onto the forest floor, not minding the snow.

“Good night, Geralt.” Grass tickles your cheek, and you hear him settle next to you. The thought of him staying there puts you at ease.

“Sleep well, (y/n).”

You can’t help but think about what you will do when he leaves you, and then you are asleep, dreaming of the sadness of the inevitable.


	3. Chapter 3

You wake feeling blanketed by more than just your cloak, and when you sit up you disturb the drift of snow that started to cover you while you slept. You look around and spot Geralt in a similar state, dozing upright against a tree. The flakes are still falling, thick and fast. When you stand and start dusting yourself off Geralt shifts and rouses himself. 

He brushes the snow from his clothes as you are doing, and says, “It’s unseasonable weather for this time of year; I didn’t think it would pile up so quickly. We probably won’t get to town before dark.”

He’s right. It keeps snowing and the drifts grow and walking becomes harder. You are not very tall and it gets to the point that you are wading as if through a particularly resistant river.

Coming into town, where Geralt is leading to a building with a sign for the inn, it occurs to you that you have no money to pay for a room. He notices when you stop walking.

“What is it?” He asks.

“Nothing,” you say, “I just have no coin, I was paid in room and board, so I’ll find somewhere outside of town. I’ll see you in the morning. Or not! You’ve got me out of hell already, so…” 

You trail off and turn from him, fully intending to find a stable to sleep in, a porch to burrow under, but the witcher growls, “Don’t be stupid. You’ll freeze. Come on, we’re staying at the inn.”

You walk through the door at sundown, shoving back your hood and making sure your hair is covering your ears. There is a small dining area, a bar, and stairs that go up to a short hallway of rooms. There are only a few scattered patrons, one of which is sitting at the bar but stands when you come in. 

“You picked a helluva time to be travelling,” he says in a jovial tone. “You’ll stay the night? I couldn’t in good conscience send you back out into that blizzard.”

Geralt nods. “We’ll take two rooms.”

You balk at that. “You will not spend any extra coin on me, Witcher. I will sleep on your floor.”

He is clearly about to argue this when the innkeep intervenes. “I’m sorry, but we’ve only got one empty room. The miss is right, Witcher, you’ll be sharing.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, “but you can’t stop me from buying you dinner.”

You can’t and you wouldn’t with how your stomach is growling, so you sit at a corner table together, taking in ale and stew, warming you from the inside out. Yet you still fight down a shiver; you’ve since shrugged off your snowy cloak, but not before it had soaked through and wetted your clothes.

Your head snaps up when Geralt asks if water can be heated for a bath, your face no doubt overeager, but no, surely he’s asking it for himself, and you look down at your hands in your lap with a frown. He snorts under his breath at your reaction and says, “I was asking it for you. You keep shivering.”

Geralt stays with his drink while you help the innkeep carry pails of water to the battered old tub in your room. Or rather, you help him by carrying the washcloth and towel and soap. You feel badly that you can’t help him with the heavy buckets, but that feeling melts away once you are alone in the room. It is delicious to sink into the steaming water, and you can’t help your low moan. You set to work scrubbing your skin with the cake of soap. You carefully wash at your wound and scrub the dried blood from your arm. Your torn flesh stings in the water but you endure it to submerge your head, working through your hair languidly. Your back is burning curiously but you do not want to come up for air yet; you stay under until your lungs feel as if they’ll burst.

When you emerge a deep hmm sounds behind you, and you stiffen as Geralt says, “I thought you’d be done. Sorry. I’ll go.” A pause, and then, “Your back is bleeding.”

You twist uselessly to try and see. You know that the last time Lyden used his belt on you was too long ago to reopen. You try to reach with your fingertips and can’t.

“Let me,” Geralt offers. “I think it’s from when you fell, that night. You have quite the luck, to be attacked and then land on something sharp.” 

You listen as he moves closer and kneels. He touches your back lightly, running the calloused pads of his fingers over the skin slowly, giving you time to pull away. You flinch the slightest bit but otherwise stay put; he grabs the washrag from the rim of the tub and wets it, pressing it carefully over the scrape, washing away the blood around it. You don’t mean to sigh but you can’t take back the pleased sound you make; he pauses before continuing the gentle touches, taking longer than you think is strictly necessary.

It takes you nodding off and Geralt clearing his throat to wake you up for you to realize how tired you are. You apologize and ask for him to turn around; you get out of the water and towel off in the cold air, yanking on your nightgown as quickly as you can. You tell him when you’re decent and grab a pillow from the bed and he watches you toss it to the ground before he asks what you’re doing.

“I told you I would sleep on the floor. You paid for the room, you get the bed.”

He crosses to where you stand, and you take a step back but all he does is pick up the pillow and put it back.

Towering over you, he rumbles, “No one’s sleeping on the floor. There’s room enough for two. Climb in.”

You can hardly disobey; you crawl under the blankets and watch him go back to his side. You don’t look away as he pulls off his shirt, thinking yourself sly, and roll over only when he unlaces his pants. Your cheeks feel over-warm. The bed dips with his weight and you wonder what he wears to sleep, then wonder why you are wondering about that. 

You’re falling asleep when he says, “I have enough coin to pay for room and meals for you. Just let me.” 

You hum noncommittally and he blows out the candle. You are careful not to touch each other in the dark, but when you wake up to the pink light of dawn and a heavy arm is thrown over your belly, you give a contented hum and go back to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s not so much brighter when you wake and are ready to face the day, only to see that Geralt is gone. You dress as quickly as you can, yanking on warm layers and shoving your nightgown into your bag. The Witcher has not left anything in the room, and you figure that he’s left for good while hoping that he will be waiting at a table for you downstairs. It’s a stupid wish, yet you still feel a pang in your chest when it isn’t granted. A few days with a gruff sort of kindness and you’re already addicted.

The innkeep sees you looking around and lets you know the room’s been paid for, asks if you’d like breakfast while you wait for your Witcher to return.

You scoff. Your Witcher. You will not dally around waiting for a man that isn’t coming back.

The blizzard has broken and the sun dazzles in the snow, near blinding you. You were worried you’d have to wade through as you’d done most of yesterday, but you find paths shoveled out, people going about their daily business. At least until the edge of town you can walk easily. And after that? You suppose you’ll head south, far enough that you won’t fear freezing to death when you sleep. You imagine warm sun, a cool river, soft grass and dappled shade. 

You are snapped from your daydream when a woman walks your way. When you nod in greeting she smiles in return, passing you by. How strange the difference that the small distance from here to home has made; you find yourself charmed by this little village where no one knows you. 

Despite willing yourself to begin your journey alone, your feet take you down the path to the small stable beside the inn, only a few horses waiting in stalls. You have always felt safest with animals near, and you’re comforted by these horses, with their sturdy strength and big brown eyes. You reach out to the velvety nose of a huge mare, and she whickers and leans into your touch. She’s a magnificent creature, and as you continue petting her you can’t help but start talking. 

Eventually you settle in the hay with your back to her stall door, and tell her of your past few days. You tell her that you were ready for that beast to kill you, maybe even welcomed it, that you are ashamed of the growing warmth you feel toward the Witcher, the lack of remorse for killing Lyden. Your eyes are closed and there’s a small thrill buzzing through you at the thought of your freedom, the sweet scent of hay, and you ask of the mare, “How is it that I feel more peace in murdering a man than liking one? Has something in me broken?”

For a moment you think you imagine the voice that speaks when you’re done. “I see you met Roach,” Geralt rumbles, “I find her company engaging as well.”

You startle slightly, feeling guilty that you tense up; surely he’s had his fill of people being afraid of him.

“I’m sorry,” you rush to say, “I just didn’t hear you approach…” You trail off when you notice he seems unbothered. He stands over you, rubbing the horse’s nose as you’d been doing. So this is the Roach he’d mentioned.

“What were you talking about?” He inquires, his eyes dipping to your packed bag before training his gaze on you, watching as you stand and brush hay from your skirts.

“I was asking this lovely mare where she will take you next.” It isn’t a total lie; you’d mulled over with her what would happen to you now that he’d left the town. Which he didn’t, apparently. You wonder now if he’ll allow you to keep tagging along or if it’s time to part ways. You’ve never had a companion before Geralt and you can’t pretend away the fondness that is growing in your heart. You frown.

“You weren’t talking to her about where _you’re_ going?” He looks again at your bag and you shift on your feet, looking at Roach to avoid looking at him.

“It’s just… I thought you’d left, so I was going to move on as well.”

“So why didn’t you?”

You’re surprised he asks, and when you look back up at him he seems genuinely curious. 

“I guess I was hoping you’d come back.”

He has no response for that but a deep _hmm_. He turns from you and says, “I’ve just been paid for killing the beast that nearly killed you. It’s time for lunch.”

That is the closest to an invitation you think he will give, so with one last pat for Roach you scurry after the Witcher, thinking the dazzle of the sun on snow gives him a halo-glow that suits him as much as his armor and swords. 

You can tell from outside the inn that it is infinitely more rowdy than before, rivalling even your own tavern --not yours, not anymore, you have to remind yourself-- and when you enter the people are gathered around an extravagantly dressed man sitting on the bar. He is telling a story with a cup in hand, his wild gesticulations spilling drink, clearly a little drunk already even though it is barely noon.

Geralt is in front of you in the doorway and he visibly stiffens. You step abreast of him, notice his clenched jaw, ask, “Do you know him?”

But then the storyteller lets out a delighted yell, hops from the bar and slips between townsfolk to plant his hands on the Witcher’s shoulders and say, “Geralt, you brute, I haven’t seen you in ages! Best friends should be in contact more often than this. Who is this delightful morsel of a girl, is she with you?”

It takes you a moment to process that you are the _delightful morsel_ and you flush from your cheeks to the tips of your ears. 

Geralt, on the other hand, shrugs the man off and retorts, “It hasn’t been long enough since I last saw you, Jaskier.”

But Jaskier just laughs, and Geralt walks away from the both of you, setting himself down at a table. You and Jaskier both trot after him. Now that the entertainment is over, most of the people leave, dispersing to get back to work.

Jaskier calls for a round for his dear friend and fair maiden then says to you, “Where on this continent did Geralt find you, my lady? I could write countless songs of your beauty.” He perks up after his proclamation and trots to the bar to retrieve an abandoned lute and returns, plucking out a melody. Oh, apparently he is going to do this _now_.

“Fuck off, Jaskier,” Geralt says, but there’s not much force behind the words. “She needed help and I happened to be there.”

“Ooh, so what was it that almost got you?” 

“Bard, stop,” Geralt warns.

“No, it’s fine,” you interject, “I don’t mind.” You carefully push your sleeve up to show him your bandage. There’s less blood blotting the white linen, your skin finally starting to heal after a couple days not using the arm for anything strenuous. 

Not insensitively, he wonders aloud, “Could you not have healed at home?”

“Wasn’t much of a home,” you snort.

“Really? Why not?”

The bard means no harm in asking, but you still feel yourself blanche, your stomach drop. It surprises you when Geralt speaks.

“This is why.”

He reaches over to you and tucks your hair carefully behind one pointed ear. Jaskier watches this with rapt attention and your heart skips as you sweep your hair back into place, expecting the man to say something awful about your heritage or to leave or to get up and sing it to the whole inn. 

But he does none of those things; instead, he looks to Geralt and says, “I’ve known you for how many years? And you’ve never once brushed my hair from my face. But you know this girl, what? A week?”

“I think it’s been just four days, actually,” you interrupt, bewildered by this response.

Jaskier sputters, “What? Four days! And you touch her all tender and sweet! I thought we had a good thing going, but I guess I mean no more to you than a two-penny whore.” He throws an exasperated hand in the air and picks up his cup with the other, taking a long pull from his drink. “I suppose I’d best start writing something maudlin now for my lost love.”

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, rolling his eyes.

“I like this bard,” you tell the Witcher.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says again, more emphatically. But when you grin, you think you see the corner of his mouth twitch up, just for a second.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning for mention of past sexual assault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long to update, this chapter (and life) really kicked my ass and I'm still not entirely satisfied with it but wanted to post anyway! I hope you enjoy!

Jaskier is a force to be reckoned with, in terms of conversation, and you are slightly surprised by the relative tenderness Geralt shows when listening to his friend talk and gossip. The bard throws out names and places that sound beautiful and terrifying in equal measure, inquiring if Geralt remembers whatever adventure Jaskier roped them into, only getting answering grunts which you can’t tell mean yes or no.

When you glance out the window the sun is getting low in the sky and the snow is starting to melt, dripping from the roof. As you are wondering when it will be fully melted, a man rides up on a horse shiny with sweat and he throws himself from the saddle, the door slamming open a moment later.

“Where’s the Witcher?” He shouts, eyes wild. 

“Shit,” Geralt grumbles. 

The inkeep points to your table and the stranger staggers over, says, “Witcher, I’m in need of your services. A pair of Drowners, not a day’s ride from here, toward the city, got the mayor’s boy and my own daughter. We’ll pay anything.”

Geralt closes his eyes and sighs, says under his breath, “Can I get one fucking week without a monster?”

Jaskier is not hesitant to give _his_ two cents. He tells Geralt to do it, take the coin to buy some new clothes. He looks at you, takes in your old handmade dress, adds that Geralt could afford to get you something nice as well.

The Witcher _hmms_ , tells the man, “I’ll do it for no less than 250 ducat. We leave now,” then addresses the innkeeper, “I will pay for rooms for my two companions when I return. See to it they get food as well.”

“I know you are good for your payment, Witcher,” the man answers.

Jaskier gives the parting remark, “Fight hard and return with coin!”

As the door is closing you call out, “Please be safe, Geralt.”

He pauses in the doorway, looks at you with those liquid amber eyes, murmurs, “I will be.” 

And he is gone.

“Ah, well, there he goes again,” Jaskier says, breaking you from your thoughts. “It is to be expected though. He’s always _leaving_.”

You note a hint of dryness in his tone, but when he speaks again it is with a renewed cheerfulness.

“What to do now but drink, hm? Maybe find a bedfellow for the night…” 

Those winterblue eyes catch on yours, lingering in his trailed off invitation.

“I will drink with you,” you say carefully, not wanting to offend, “But I wish to sleep alone.”

It’s not that you don’t have desire, just that you engaged in the act only once before and it didn’t end well. And if you think of bringing anyone to bed, there is only one man who comes to mind. But Jaskier seems unaffected by your rejection, his eyes crinkling in a smile when he orders your first round of drinks.

You nearly spit out your first sip when the bard says, “I can see that you are getting tangled in his web, you know. I have certainly looked at him the same way. But he never quite looked back at me as he does you; like you are something he’s been searching for for a long time. It’s nice, to see him interested in someone, for once.”

You take a big gulp from your ale, feel your nerves jangling. You cannot tell if it’s pleasant or not.

“That can’t be right,” you finally manage, “He’s a Witcher, they aren’t supposed to… to _feel_ things like that.”

In this moment Jaskier seems much more knowing than he previously let on, calmly tells you, “Maybe other Witchers. But you and I both know that isn’t true of Geralt.” 

Deep down you feel his words ring true, but you don’t know what to do with this information, that Geralt may think as warmly of you as you do him.

You don’t know what to do, so you down the rest of your drink and order another. Jaskier’s coin purse is full and his heart generous, and though it takes a bit to get you drunk, that is how you find yourself some time later, when it is late enough that the townspeople have gathered to drink as well. 

The room is full enough that you feel bad taking up a table when you have certainly drunk your fill already, Jaskier too if his rosy cheeks are any indication, so you suggest a walk. 

He offers you his arm when you step outside; a true gentleman. The air is chilled and feels nice on your flushed cheeks, the moon lighting enough to see the road muddy with snowmelt, the stars peeking out of the black velvet sky. You walk arm-in-arm, the bard singing something soft and sweet. 

Feeling bold, you release him for a moment to tuck your hair behind your ears, brush a finger over the small scar there before admitting, “I am not experienced enough to know what to do about Geralt.”

The bard considers, then says, “I find it best to do what feels right.”

You mull over his simple advice, and though it is sound, you don’t know if you can do it. “The last time--the only time--I did what felt right in regards to romance it ended poorly.”

“Care to talk about it?”

“I suppose so.” You’ve never told anyone about that night, but the alcohol seems to make you candid, and so you tell him about your job as a barmaid, the travellers who would shamelessly flirt, the one who seemed genuine and funny and kind. “He took me out back,” you say, “And it was all fun until I was halfway undressed and he saw my ears. He became mean, he hurt me and did not stop until he was finished. I don’t like to think about it. But thank you, for listening.”

You stop walking to take in calming breaths, and the bard stops too, watches as you try to school your expression to something neutral. 

“I really do like him, Jaskier.” Your voice cracks when you speak, this admission a weight on your heart that you don’t know how to bear, because you’ve never had to do it before. Hope and love are new to you, and scary in their mystery. 

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something right as a woman steps out of her door to empty a pail and happens to glance at you. You notice her mouth press to a thin line, her eyes narrow, and you are confused until she spits, “Filthy elf.”

Your ears, you’d pulled your hair back and she can see your ears.

Jaskier steps in front of you, says, “We’re not looking for trouble. Just passing through.”

You recognize her now; she is the woman who smiled at you earlier today, so friendly when she thought you were human. Jaskier is tugging on your hand, hurrying you back to the inn, but as he is ushering you up the stairs to the safety of your room, the front door bangs open and she yells your secret to the good people of the town.

She is pointing, and every eye in the bar turns to you, and she hisses, “Endell, are you going to let the creature stay in your inn? Surely not.”

He sighs, looks to you apologetically, but echoes, “Surely not. You must go, girl.”

What can you do but obey? Your heart pounds in your throat as you go, your skin prickling under the scrutiny. You’re at the edge of town when Jaskier catches up to you with your bag.

“I’ll come with you,” he says, his words sounding like a plea, “You don’t have to leave alone.”

You shake your head. “You need to be here when Geralt returns. Maybe we will meet again, Jaskier.”

“Here, at least take this. The innkeep wanted me to give you some food; he felt bad that woman found out. He said to be safe.” The bard presses a loaf of bread and hunk of cheese into your hands, wrapped in a handkerchief. You slip it into your bag. “And take this as well. I also want you to stay safe out there.” He gives you ten gold coins, more money in the palms of your hands than you’ve ever held before. You swipe away stray tears, smile at him, though you know it isn’t convincing.

“Thank you, my friend.”

You don’t look back when you leave the town’s border.

You only pause when he shouts, “I pray that the fates cross our paths again.”

The night stretches long before you, empty time with nothing to do but think, but there is only one thought that pounds in your head, drums in your heart. You should have known not to trust a good thing to last. You deny the tiny spark of hope that still lingers in your chest, weak but there nonetheless.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Solma up, I imagine it to be a small city, just so you know! I have a feeling the next chapter will be the last, fair warning.

You aren’t ready yet to face any more people, so you walk along the road all night, slipping into the treeline as the sun rises. The ground is too wet to sleep on, and your shoes are soaked through and muddy, but after some searching you find a tree with thick enough branches to sit on comfortably, resting against the trunk. You climb high enough to not worry about wolves and hang your shoes to dry; you fall asleep quickly despite the early winter chill in the air.

But your sleep is fitful, plagued by dreams full of blood and heartache that feel more like premonitions than you would like. You don’t sleep long enough and are too exhausted to climb down quite yet, so you waste more time up in the tree, eat up half your loaf of bread and cheese, ponder how far less-than-a-day’s-ride is, how long it takes to walk it.

But no, that’s a foolish thought and you’re a foolish woman for thinking it. You should not expect to see the Witcher again. You should not be hoping for people to come into your life for good, to stay. How many times must you learn the lesson that the ones you care for are torn from you or turn on you? Your parents, the boy you trusted. The Witcher, someday, if you would have stayed with him.

Huffing, you tug on your mostly-dry shoes, clamber down to the ground. Your arm hurts from the strain but does not reopen. You leave the bloodstained bandage at the base of the tree. Soon enough you will only have scars to remind you of the Witcher who saved your life.

It is well past midday when you get back on the road, walking the muddy way to Solma. When you finally see it on the horizon, painted golden by the light, it seems like a city out of a fairytale, so much grander than anything you have ever seen before. You do your best to not let it awe you, but how could it not?

The outskirts of town have more farms than your whole village, and the first real street of cobblestone is lined with two taverns, a brothel, an inn, apothecary, potionmaster… 

What you wouldn’t give to have been dropped in this town as a child. But then again, you likely would not have met Geralt, which of course doesn’t _matter_ as you won’t see him again and doesn’t change the cruelty you endured before him and will continue to endure after.

And then, as if summoned by thinking of him, _wishing_ for him, you hear his name spoken aloud.

“Geralt of Rivia was hired to get rid of them.”

“If anyone can do it it’s the Butcher, alright.”

“And if not, that’s one less fucking Witcher on the continent.”

There are so many people streaming past you, you whirl to give faces to the voices, and _there_ : two young men, walking towards a bar. 

“I hear Konrad told him there were only two,” one says with a cruel smile, “Thought he might not accept the job if he knew there was a whole pack of them.”

There’s a roaring in your ears, your head a mess of thoughts you can’t string together, your focus narrowing to a point.

“Wonder if we’ll be hearing of the Butcher of Blaviken found dead.”

“Any day now, I reckon.”

No. _No_. He saved you. He saved you from your life, and you will not let that debt go unpaid. You will save him in turn, or die trying.

You catch one of the men by the sleeve in the doorway of the bar, certainly sound deranged when you say, “Tell me where I can get a weapon.”

He looks as if he wants to shake you off, instead points, tells you the smith is just down the road.

He turns, but you don’t let go.

“And the Drowners. Point me in their direction.”

His friend sneers, “A little thing like you? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to save the gods damned White Wolf,” you snarl, “And if you don’t tell me where he is and I find him dead, I will hunt you down and gut you.”

Both of their faces are wiped of smiles, and they stammer over each other to tell you, east, the Drowners have been hunting from the swamp a mile out of town.

“Thank you.” You turn on your heel to jog to the smith, whispering to yourself, “ _Gut them_? What the hell am I doing?”

The blacksmith sells you a dagger for seven gold pieces, a steep price for a small weapon, but you don’t have the knowledge or time to dispute it, so you thank him and go. On your hurried way through town you pass through an open market, the sights and smells so new and inviting, but all you can picture is Geralt walking through it on his way to a hunt he wasn’t prepared for. 

The mile to the swamp is the longest of your life.

You arrive around dusk, dagger clutched in your hands, your heart pounding wildly. You killed Lyden, but that is different than defeating a creature that lives to hunt and is likely starving this far north on the edge of winter.

Out here there is no dry land, and you are ankle deep in freezing mud and so _fucking_ enraged that Geralt was sent out here to die.

That rage does not protect you from the Drowners, though. The swamp water is to your knees when you hear squelching footsteps approaching and you cannot tell where they are coming from until it is almost on you, a cadaverous humanoid towering over you. You duck under its reaching arms, a stroke of dumb luck, and while it is turned you tackle it, clinging to the slimy skin with one arm and driving your dagger into its head with the other, again and again and again until it drops, you tumbling down into the murky water with it. 

You pant out heavy breaths and get to your feet, feeling unsteady when you hear a familiarly rough voice bark, “Look out!”

You turn and another one is right there, right in your face, pushing you down and you hear Geralt’s sword singing through the air, tearing through Drowners, but all of that is dimmed when you lose your footing and the creature shoves your head underwater. Geralt is too far away to help you and you panic for a moment-- _you do not want to die, don’t want to be drowned out here, don’t want Geralt to have to deal with your death if he lives_ \--but you are not a damsel in distress, never were much of one and you certainly aren’t after murdering your keeper.

You shove your blade up, grit your teeth at the effort of ripping through the monster’s belly, its stinking guts spilling onto you as you shove it off. You come up spluttering, gasping, but Geralt might still need your help and that thought urges you to stand, eyes darting until they find the Witcher facing the last of the Drowners. You watch as he slices the head cleanly from the shoulders. 

As soon as it drops his gaze meets yours. It is night in earnest now, but the moonlight is bright and reflects off of tar dark eyes, black veins creeping along his face. He sucks in a breath, takes a half step back, and you see now what people were talking about, you see a man that looks like a demon fresh from hell. 

You take two slow steps towards him before breaking into a run, splashing and clumsy; he drops his sword to catch you when you throw your arms around him, lifts you out of the water, so solid against you. If he is a demon, so be it; you will sin happily as long as it’s for him

“You’re okay,” you breathe, “I was so worried.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” He sets you lightly back down onto your own feet, sounding choked, so obviously distressed to be seen like this. “You could’ve been killed. Are you fucking crazy?”

“I got to Solma and people were saying you were probably _dead_. I was so _scared_ for you!” His eyes widen at that. You suspect he expected you to be scared _of_ him, not for him, the dense man. 

But he doesn’t focus on that, not right now. “Why were you in Solma in the first place? Where’s Jaskier?”

“It’s fine, he’s fine, he’s still at the inn. You don’t need to worry.”

“Why did you leave?” He presses.

You are apprehensive of how he’ll react, but he would find out sooner or later, so you say in a sigh, “They found out. They wouldn’t have me there any longer.”  
His fathomless eyes come alight with his fury, and you reach for him but he steps back, winces then tries to hide it, asks, “Are you hurt?”

“Are _you_?” You counter, scanning his body in the silvery light. A slash on his thigh bleeding sluggishly, but no other damage that you can see. You glance at his face only to see him taking stock of you as well.

“The only thing wrong with me right now is that I am covered in mud and monster guts. I’m fine. You are the one with a bleeding leg. Please come back with me, let me patch you up.”

He grunts noncommittally, but when you brush a hand over his cheek, whisper, “Please, Geralt,” he gives the slightest nod and fishes his sword from the water. You have travelled with him before, know that he is so much quicker than you are, but now he shortens his steps and walks in stride with you all the way back to Solma. 

You think of your lonely, miserable walk the previous night, thank the gods that destiny saw fit to throw the Witcher back on your path. You have always been in the shadow of death and loss and loneliness, but you are tired of that, so tired. For a while at least, you will bask in the warmth of this man’s company, as long as he will let you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's smut Babey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck me this took forever, sorry about that. but it’s finally done. it’s got smut and it’s the last chapter and i hope y’all enjoy it! i sure did, i haven’t finished a multi-chapter fic since i was like 14 so i’m pretty proud lol. it may be a bit out of character at the end, but it made me happy to write so i’m leaving it as is. once again I hope you enjoy this final part!

You and the Witcher make quite a pair walking back into Solma, drenched in mud and gore. His eyes, at least, have returned to their usual gold, so no one runs away screaming--he had warned you that might happen, the casual way he said it weighing on your heart. On that mostly-silent walk, you resolved that you would stoke the burning warmth that resides in you, chase away the coldness of other people that lingers in the set of his jaw, his hard and guarded face. 

You left that other village because you knew that feelings were creeping up on you; you could have waited for him to return outside of town, but you were too scared of your own emotions. But you can’t run from them, you don’t _want_ to run from them, not anymore. 

He is clearly headed for an inn, the one he told you Roach is stabled at, but you redirect him.

“We should collect your payment now,” you say, “And I know just where Konrad will be.”

You ignore the question in his eyes, lead him to the bar that those asses entered just a few hours ago. They are still there, in the crowd that all end up with eyes on the Witcher. He approaches Konrad, the man who hired him.

“I’ll take my payment,” Geralt says. 

The man, coward that he is, fumbles for his coin purse and hands it over silently, watching Geralt weigh it in his hand, open the bag to check the coin.

“You will find it is all there, Witcher,” he finally says. “All 250 ducat.” 

Geralt gives a clipped nod, but you aren’t satisfied. 

You step up to the man, tell him, “That’s not nearly the amount he is owed. You lied about how many Drowners he would find in that swamp, sent him there expecting him to die. 500 ducat.”

He barks out a laugh. “500? Who do you think you are, girl? I do not have that kind of money.”

“Then you will find it. You hired him saying you’d pay anything knowing that he’d give you a fair price,” you say with a dangerous glint in your eye. “I met your friends earlier, did they tell you about me? They are alive because the Witcher is. You are not out of the woods yet; not until he is paid a fair price for the work he’s done. For saving more of your people from dying.”

It is all an act, one that you are not sure you play well, but he gestures to the men around him and they pass him their coin, most shooting him dirty looks. He will not be well liked in this town after tonight.

When all of the money is rounded up and counted out, you turn to Geralt. You cannot tell by his expression what he thinks of any of this, but when you ask him for a bag to fit the coin in, he conjures one. 

On your way out the door, Konrad says, “I am a father in mourning. You should be ashamed to be taking my coin.”

You pause, remember when he first enlisted Geralt that he said his daughter was one of the people killed. You feel sorry for her, maybe a little for him as well. You answer in a softer voice. “Half of it was not your coin anyway. I am sorry for your loss, but you should not have lied when the stakes were so high.”  
Outside, you sigh, say, “I need a bath. I stink like rotting fish.” 

Geralt says nothing and you face him, not sure what to expect, but it certainly isn’t the hint of a lopsided smile that he hides just as you see it.

“What?” You ask.

He hums, considers his words before saying, “You’re more fierce than when we met.”

“Is fierceness a bad look on me? It feels a little silly,” you admit.

“I have a feeling you’ll grow into it.”

You are not sure what he means by that exactly, but he’s already turned his back on you, conversation ended. He is walking to the inn; to a _bath_ , you think excitedly, and trot after him.

But as soon as you walk in the door you are shooed back out.

“I’ll not have that mess in here, get out, the two of ya.” The woman barring entry holds no malice in her voice, at least. 

“We wish to pay for baths and board,” Geralt tries to explain, “We’ll pay well.”

“You need more than a bath! Filthy, you are… Save your money, there is a water pump and pail around the building.” She turns and meanders to a closet, putters around for a moment before finding what she’s looking for. She returns to the front door and presses soap into Geralt’s hand. “Get yourselves clean out there. The brisk air will do you good. I’ll start the fire in your room so you can warm up inside.”

She slams the door in your faces, but that’s fair enough, you think. Not that you relish the thought of being drenched with cold water. Geralt scowls but walks around the building as she said, finding the pump nestled between the inn and the stables. 

You peek in and greet Roach and when you turn around Geralt is in the process of stepping out of his clothes. You flush and turn back to the stable; of course you’ll need to take off your clothes, they need washed as well, but you hadn’t thought about it. You listen to him filling the pail and tipping it over his head, fidget in the silence as he cleans. You busy your hands with your bag, which you’ve been wearing the whole time and is as muddy as the rest of you. Luckily the things inside of it are clean, if not wet. You finger the embroidery of your mother’s shawl, tucked safely away. 

“Your turn,” Geralt rumbles, walking past you to get clean clothes from Roach’s saddlebags. Is nowhere safe for you to look? He may be confident in his nudity, but you are not, and you ask him to please stay in the stable while you wash. 

You do not hear him step any nearer while you strip or in the time it takes you to upend bucket after freezing bucket over your head--he is lucky he was not half-drowned in mud, you think--but you feel eyes on you at one point or another. You are not annoyed at him for looking. 

Once clean you call over your shoulder, “Do you have a shirt I might wear for the night?” 

He brings it to you where you stand, shivering, passes it to you and when you turn to take it he is looking away obligingly. The black fabric is worn soft from time and use, and you relish the slight warmth it brings you; you think he was holding it while he waited. 

Even though you’re clothed now you feel naked under his gaze and hastily suggest, “We should go inside now, to the fire the innkeeper promised us.”

He nods his assent and follows you inside, silent as a cat but you trust that he is there. The innkeeper insists that she take your bag and clean it and the clothes inside for you. You take out your mother’s shawl before handing over the bag. She gives Geralt the key to your room.

The fire is burning merrily, crackling and sparking and heating the cold from you. You kneel at the hearth and stretch your hands out close to the blaze, groaning at the toasty feeling. The sleeves of Geralt’s shirt slip and bunch at your elbows, past your healing wounds, and you finger the raised flesh lightly. 

“It’s almost healed,” he remarks, that voice of his rumbling behind you. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep it from scarring.”

“What a silly thing to be sorry for,” you retort, glancing at him over your shoulder. He is standing near the door still, and you roll your eyes at him as you say, “Come here, Geralt. Sit by the fire; you must be freezing.”

He obeys wordlessly and it startles you when his thigh brushes yours before settling firmly beside you.

“Like a mouse you are, Geralt,” you say a little breathlessly, “So quiet. I never know what you’ll do next.”

“I could say the same of you,” he says.

You glance at him only to find that he is already looking at you, the fire’s light playing with his hard features, but his eyes are soft, liquid gold. You open your mouth with nothing to say and so instead of saying anything you turn toward him fully and close the distance between your lips and his. He responds immediately, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his movements almost tentative. Almost, but not quite. 

But still not enough; you want him to hold you like something cherished, something forged in fire, strong and lovely and stable. You whine your displeasure against his lips and tug lightly on his hair. 

This does something to him, he slows and pulls back the distance of a breath, rumbles out, “Do that again, little elf.” 

He presses himself to you firmly then, teeth nipping at your bottom lip when you tug again, harder, groans when you shift closer, both of you readjusting until you are seated on his lap, legs bracketing one of his thick thighs. You feel the fabric of his trousers on your nakedness, press down without meaning to, and he pulls back for a moment, pupils blown wide, before trailing his hands up your thighs, bunching up the hem of the shirt he gave you so that he may hold your bare hips and guide your movements.

You have never felt like this before; by your own hand it was good, but with another person you’ve not felt pleasure. You throw your head back when he grinds you down harder, baring your neck to him, and as he kisses your throat one hand comes up, tucks your hair behind your ear and you look at him, more than a little fear creeping up in your chest, the way he is touching you so like that boy, so many years ago…

He meets your eyes steadily, his movements not slowing, his calloused finger tracing over the scarred shell of your ear and the tenderness of that tiny gesture is what tips you over. You are coming and he is kissing you through it, slowing the press of your hips until you are still. You come down from that high to find yourself still wanting, and you shove his shoulders down. He complies, plays as if you could actually push him to the ground, his lips quirking up into an expression you can only describe as soft, maybe even affectionate.

Looking down at him, you command in a husky voice you barely recognize as your own, “Make me feel that way again, Geralt.” 

As soon as you’ve said the words you regret them; who are you to be ordering around _anyone_ , let alone Geralt of Rivia, and what if he’s displeased by you telling him what to do? 

But then he is sitting up from under you to tug the hem of your shirt over your head, looking at you like he wants to _devour_ you, and all worry leaves your mind. All there is is the feeling of his thumb brushing over one nipple, his tongue laving over the other, stubble rough on your skin. 

You are torn between wanting to tip your head back to focus on the feeling of what he’s doing to you and wanting to watch his mouth work on you, but then he is moving, lifting you with him to stand, your legs wrapping around his hips and his face brushing against your neck. He walks you to the bed, shifts you to hold you with one arm so he can pull the blankets back and lay you down. 

You look up at him, slightly breathless and thoroughly debauched. He looks back, eyes so dark with lust but his face is open, strong jaw relaxed and for a moment you let yourself think he almost appears worshipful. 

_I will die a happy sinner_ , you muse, and then he is tugging off his trousers and settling himself between your thighs and there’s no more time for thoughts because he is doing something with his fingers that feels absolutely _delicious_. He works his fingers in you, stretching, gentle, watching your expression all the while for any signs of discomfort but there are none.

“More, Geralt, please,” you sigh, “I need you.”

“You’re sure?”

You nod too enthusiastically and he hides a laugh by kissing you, stealing your gasp when he enters you. You discover the sweet pleasured sound he makes when he is seated to the hilt, pausing to let you adjust before setting a slow pace. This tenderness is what you need, the steady rock of his hips against yours quickly building inside of you until you are on the edge and then coming over it, around him; he follows soon after.

For a moment you lay there together, sleepiness starting to cloud your mind until he is standing up and walking away and your heart jumps to your throat.

You sit up in a panic and he glances over his shoulder with an eyebrow raised cheekily, simply saying, “I’m just getting a cloth. Stay right there, lay back down.”

Once again you are flushed when he returns, gaze averted until he is under the blankets and resting on one elbow to carefully clean you up. When done he drops onto his back beside you; you don’t want to presume anything so you stay where you are, just barely touching, before he curls an arm around you and tugs you closer. It is his warmth and his slow heartbeat that lull you to sleep and soon you are both snoring softly, more relaxed than you have been in a long time.

You wake feeling pleasantly sore, and unlike the last time you shared a bed with Geralt, he is still lying next to you, even though the sun is already decidedly risen. You turn to face him, eyeing how low on his hips he’s let the blanket get, his hands folded on his belly just above that tantalizing trail down… And you notice how he’s tipped his face to you, watching you watching him, his lips quirking up as you flush from your cheeks to the tips of your ears. 

“How did you do that?” He eventually asks, voice pitched low.

“Do what?”

“Make me enjoy your company so damned quickly. Make me _like_ you. I don’t just _do_ that.”

You shrug, smile giving you away before you can even get the words out. “I guess I’m just a people person.”

He laughs that laugh again, so rusty with disuse, and you promise to yourself and to the universe that you will get him to make that sound often and openly. The way he is looking at you makes you think that you can.


End file.
